The songs in the shop were
songs with moons in them,
songs about waiting and forgetting and remembering.
Songs addressed to GIRL and ONLY YOU.
Only You was reading a crime novel,
an old paperback that sold for fifty cents.
The detective was shaken up after a close call
and had taken to the drink. The whole thing
shuddered like a blouse on a line in a rainstorm.
A coat brushed against Only You.
The contact was as heavy as the burden
of someone loving Only You.
This was a desolate place. The dame
was the commanding type. Only You
saw a constellation in the shape of a crustacean.
There was shuffle on a shelf nearby,
and, just before nine, the tape went quiet.